


the scientist

by orchid_spiral



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Blood, Drugged Sex, Emotional Abuse, Gore, M/M, Murder, Physical Abuse, The Brood, Vampire AU, a metric ton of exposition, dark!fic, lying and manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid_spiral/pseuds/orchid_spiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beware, take care, 'cause the freaks come out at night, and they're out for blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the scientist

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I write vampire fic now instead of doing my assignments. Meh, they're boring anyway, and this is a one-off. Probably. Anyway, this came about 'cause I thought that there seems to be a major deficiency of Brood fic, and given that the Brood were sexy blond vamp boys, this seemed to be a situation that just could not continue, so I wrote one. *shrug* Given that I'm the one writing it, this is dark as all fuck, 'cause apparently dark!fic is all I ever write. Anyway. Hope it's OK. Also, if I've missed any tags, please tell me in the comments so I can fix it ASAP.

It’s nearly night in the outskirts of suburbia, the sun bleeding red into the sky as the vampires come out to play.  
  
They call themselves the Brood. Well, Gangrel likes to call Edge and Christian his brood, even though none of them are related. They think. Both of them were brought up in foster care, but Gangrel swears that he’s never had any children. It helps that apart from the blonde hair, they don’t really look alike, and while their birthdays are pretty close, they’re not _that_ close, so Edge believes him.  
  
It’s not like it really matters, anyway. He’d follow Gangrel to the end of the Earth and back whether they’re related or not.  
  
It’s twilight, and the sky is in the middle of its transitional phase: white tinged with orange-red where the sun is sinking below the horizon, midnight black at the opposite end, and deep blue in the middle, though it’s getting darker by the minute.  
  
Despite the near-darkness, Gangrel hisses at the light, his hands going straight to his sunglasses, pushing them back against his eyes. He tenses up, eyes darting around, looking at everything around them, taking in the fine details.  
  
It’s a myth that vampires are harmed by sunlight, that they crumble to dust or catch fire when the sun touches them. (Just a falsehood made up by humans to make them feel like they had an advantage, the poor dumb fools.) Sunlight- or any strong light, in fact- hurts their eyes, makes it hard to see, but they can manage. Some vampires simply wear sunglasses and smile; others pretend to be visually disabled in some way. Quite a few prefer to only come out at night- the lazy option, Edge thinks. Very few wear no protection at all, unless they’re cocky or suicidal.  
  
There’s nothing that extraordinary about their eyes, though. Full vampires have totally black eyes, but there’s nothing unusual about them, no hypnotic stare or eerie glow. Half-vampires, like Edge and Christian, have pale red eyes- unusual, but not unheard of. Both of them were diagnosed with ocular albinism as children: not true, but it was a good cover for them both. Their eyes are sensitive to light as well, but like all of their abnormal traits, the sensitivity isn’t as bad as it is for full vampires.  
  
It’d be inaccurate to say that Edge is _used to it now_ , because _used to it_ implies that his eyes weren’t always so sensitive. In fact, he was born with it, and he’s never known any alternative. But he’s OK with that. 

(Besides, he has amazing night vision, so that’s a real plus.)  
  
Once Gangrel’s satisfied, he jerks his head toward the distant roof, and they begin to move.  
  
The three of them have been together for over a year now, and so they’re used to working together. One of Gangrel’s principal rules is _No talking to outsiders unless you absolutely have to_ , and it somehow mutated into _Don’t talk outside the nest unless you absolutely have to_ , even though nobody ever officially said it. So they’ve created their own sign language, practiced reading body language, and they’re all experts in both.  
  
Well, they would have had to anyway, given that in the time they’ve been together, Edge has yet to hear Christian speak so much as a single word. He has no idea if Christian _can’t_ speak or _won’t_ speak, but Gangrel doesn’t seem to know either, especially since Christian refuses to answer any questions on the subject.  
  
But in the end, that’s all beside the point.  
  
Night is falling like an axe, and the Brood are already gone.  
  
They like rooftops. They’re a lot more fun than roads, and there’s a lot less potential for danger: no cars, few cameras, and hardly any other travellers.  
  
Sure, roofs can be slippery, and there’s always the chance of going over some old, dilapidated building with a roof that can’t support their weight, or tiles that will break off under their feet and send them sliding over the edge, but that’s no real risk to them.  
  
On the one hand, there’s vampire regeneration: it’s not instantaneous, but it’s a lot faster than humans can heal, and it works on everything: lost limbs, diseases humans can’t heal from naturally, even regenerating atrophied brain tissue (according to Gangrel, who saw it once and told Christian and Edge about it in detail until they practically broke the land-speed record getting out of the room). Half-vampires’ regeneration isn’t as fast, but it seems to work on the same things: for instance, they once got in a fight, and in all the confusion, Gangrel accidentally ended up biting off Christian’s little finger. The wound had closed over in a minute, and the finger grew back in a week, good as the one he’d been born with.  
  
On the other hand, there’s their agility: vampires are supernaturally strong, fast and agile, but it’s not as extreme as many think: they’re in the upper reaches of human capability. More than most humans can do, but not impossible- there are skilled, trained athletes who can run faster or who are stronger than vampires.  
  
Of course, a vampire who wanted to could easily train and go beyond human capabilities altogether, but most can’t be bothered, preferring to rely on what vampirism has given them and just assume that they’ll never meet anyone who can offer them a real challenge. Lazy idiots.

And then, of course, there’s the other trick up their sleeve: before he met Gangrel, Edge was a traceur in his college’s Parkour club. He wasn’t the best at it, but he was skilled and working to improve himself.  
  
He’s done his best to teach Christian and Gangrel what he knows, and they put it to good use now.  
  
The roof of the old, abandoned building across the street is easily accessible by a rusted ladder attached to the side wall, but it falls short about three metres from the ground: too high for anyone to reach without (at least) a ladder, and anyone climbing down would need something soft to land on, or they’d risk breaking their legs.  
  
It’s no problem for the Brood, though. Gangrel, despite his big frame, only needs a run-up in order to jump high enough to grab the first rung. Once he does, he climbs the ladder as quickly as he can- agility or no agility, if the ladder breaks, there’s not much they can do.  
  
Christian and Edge exchange a glance, and reach an unspoken agreement. It takes a little adjusting and shifting around to manage, but Christian manages to use Edge’s cupped hands as a platform, and soon he’s at the top, Gangrel helping him onto the roof proper.

There’s one thing to do before Edge can climb, though: he turns, picks up the unremarkable black duffel bag sitting next to him, and picks it up. It’s very light, but that’s going to change soon.

He looks up at Gangrel and Christian’s distant faces, and once he gets the nod, he bends down and hurls it up to them.

Gangrel snatches it out of the air, and Christian gives Edge the thumbs up for a second, though he looks bored and uninterested in everything. Then again, he always does, so Edge rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t have time for this bullshit, anyway. It’s time to go.

He steps back, takes his sunglasses off, drops them into a pocket, and makes sure it’s tightly closed. Then he fastens his leather jacket firmly and makes sure that his shoelaces are tied.  
  
Given how big a health hazard clothing malfunctions present, he’s loath to take any chances, even with his regeneration.  
  
He takes a deep breath, lets himself relax, and then he runs at the wall. At the last second, he plants a foot on the dull brick and pushes up with enough strength to propel him up to the ladder’s height.  
  
The rails feel wrong under his hands- they’re old, flaking, corroding, and the sensation just feels _bad_ , as does the disgusting scent of rusting metal. It sticks in his nose, crawling up through his nostrils like an invading parasite that plans to move in permanently and breed. In the end, he has to take a second to focus on the real task, and then he hauls himself up the rails with his hands until he can get his feet on the first rung.  
  
Once he’s there, it’s easy, and he’s at the top in no time, thank God.  
  
Christian helps him onto the roof, and Edge breathes a sigh of relief as he puts his sunglasses back on and runs his hands over his coat a few times, trying to shake off the echoing feeling of _wrong_ in his hands as he breathes deeply, the sharp scent of the winter wind quickly displacing the stench of rusty metal.  
  
It’s not just the rusted rails that were getting to him. He’s never sure that a manoeuvre like that will work, and while regeneration means that he doesn’t have to really worry about major injuries, it doesn’t mean that they don’t hurt like a bitch if, for instance, he missed the rails and fell.  
  
Up on the roof, though, it’s a whole new world. The rooftops form their streets, but there’s no one else around, and the only thing to get in their way are the gaps where the roads are and the tops of the tallest trees.

Edge has seen it many times before, but it always takes his breath away, and not for the first time, he wishes he could just stay up there forever.

The wind’s blowing pretty hard, though, and his enhanced senses means that he feels the cold a lot worse than vanilla humans do, even through his jacket.

OK, the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt under it doesn’t help when it feels like he’s being stabbed repeatedly by a frozen blade that’s too dull to penetrate his skin, but he’ll live. They’ll be moving pretty soon, anyway.  
  
In this part of suburbia, there aren’t any skyscrapers, thankfully. It’s an obstacle they really don’t need. Of course, they might run into some (hopefully not literally) along the way, though that’s an _if_ , not a _will_ , given that their destination is as yet unknown- by Edge and Christian, at least. Gangrel never tells them where they’re going. He leads them there, and trusts them to follow him.  
  
They always do.  
  
Gangrel takes the duffel bag from Christian, jerks his head to the right, and takes off.  
  
Edge and Christian run after him, their footsteps light and fast, and Edge almost feels like laughing as they dash through the night, the wind blasting past them. His cheeks are flushed with what could be exhilaration or exposure to the cold, but he doesn’t care, because there’s not much that can compare to how _good_ this kind of running feels.  
  
It’s a mostly clear night, which is always a plus, and the moon’s nearly full. They don’t need its light to see, of course, but it’s nice to have the help.  
  
More importantly, while it’s the middle of winter, it hasn’t rained for several days, and snow is rare. Slippery roofs are a real bane for them, and so it’s been a while since they’ve gone out.  
  
After all, even vampires need groceries.

 

It feels like forever before they stop, and Edge is pretty sure that they’ve reached the opposite end of the city. He doesn’t want it to end, though. The rush of racing over the rooftops, leaping from roof to ridge so quickly it’s almost like there’s no time to do anything but move, feeling the sting of the freezing wind against his face- it’s something he’ll never get used to and never stop loving, no matter how many times he does it.  
  
He doesn’t want to get used to it, to be honest.  
  
They come to an abrupt stop on the roof of a two-storey shop that seems to be unoccupied- well, the lights aren’t on, at least, and there’s almost nobody on the streets below them.  
  
Edge turns, his eyes searching around them for any sign of pursuit, any sign that they were followed, as he listens for footsteps, sirens, anything. Christian and Gangrel are doing the same, and after some time, they all relax simultaneously.  
  
They’ve been seen before, of course. Impossible not to, really. Mostly it’s just people getting a fleeting glimpse of them, which is OK. They run fast enough that they’re usually out of sight before the average person walking down the street or driving down the road can really register what they saw, and even if said person does do something about it, they’re usually gone by then, too fast to catch.  
  
There have been a couple of situations that got out of hand, but most of the time nothing really happens. It helps that while everything in the duffel bag is extremely suspicious, nothing in it is actually illegal, thankfully. If they ever get stopped, they try to dispose of the bag before the authorities get to them and then just claim to be traceurs out for a run, which isn’t strictly false.  
  
The trips back are when things really get difficult. The items in their duffel bag might be suspicious as all hell before they go shopping, but once they’re done, they’re hauling back a bag full of evidence that would get all of them sent to prison for life. Or unlife, such as it may be.  
  
On the one hand, the logical thing to do would be to make their way back as unobtrusively and inconspicuously as possible- so no running over the rooftops, no daring escapades as they hide from the police, no thrill of outwitting and outrunning the normals.  
  
On the other hand, their options are limited. Running is the fastest option they have, because while all of them can drive, none of them hold a legal driver’s license: Edge and Christian are officially missing persons, and given that Gangrel’s a few hundred years old, he decided a while ago that it would be too risky to pose as a citizen, since he doesn’t age. They can’t risk simply driving home- there’s always the chance that they might get pulled over by a cop, and then they’re really fucked. They don’t have any associates who could drive them, either- besides, even though they avoid shopping too close to previous locations, they can’t risk using the same car more than once.  
  
Public transport is far too slow and way too risky, especially with the bag. Given how far they go to shop at times, just walking back isn’t plausible.  
  
So they run: nobody ever looks up, and they’ve done hundreds of trips and only been chased on a handful of occasions.  
  
They’re fine with that.  
  
Gangrel jerks his head to the left, and they move off, though now they’re going a bit slower than the breakneck pace before.  
  
It isn’t long before Gangrel halts. He points to a house ahead of them: a small, ordinary-looking two-storey home painted white. The lights are off, as are the lights in every other house on the street; the curtains are drawn and the street, on the whole, seems very peaceful. Nobody’s outside, no cars are driving by, and there’s no noise.  
  
That’s about to change, at any rate.  
  
They don’t go right in, of course. That would be borderline suicidal. Instead, Gangrel signals, and Edge makes his way onto the neighbour’s roof with a few leaps.  
  
There’s more to these trips than just shopping. It’s Gangrel’s way of teaching them about themselves- how to really understand their vampire side. The side they wouldn’t have ever known about if it wasn’t for him, and that thought is downright alarming, because Edge remembers life before Gangrel and it was horrible.

Not in the way everyone thinks it was, of course. He had a great childhood, a loving foster family, and he was really enjoying college. He had nothing to complain about and everything to like.

But life as a vampire is just so much more fulfilling than life as a human. Everything about it is so much _better_ , from his enhanced senses to his new family.  
  
Looking at it from a purely analytic point of view, it’s kind of alarming how easy it was for him to walk away from his life, his family, everything.  
  
From an emotional point of view, though, he really doesn’t care. His life is just so _great_ now- again, not that it was truly horrible before, but he just always felt like there was something missing, and he didn’t have the faintest idea of what it was.  
  
Gangrel changed that. Gangrel, and his big silver chalice of thick dark blood, the one he keeps locked away where Edge and Christian can’t drink it dry.

  
  
Edge has no idea what the hell is in that chalice. It’s not ordinary blood, that’s for sure. It’s definitely human, but there’s something _more_ to it- something that enhances his senses even more, something almost like liquid pleasure, something that just makes him want to scream with delight.  
  
Just the thought of it is making him shake a little, and his arm itches.  
  
He scratches it idly, and then freezes as below him, a car drives by sedately, the sound grating a little on his ears.  
  
Right. They’re supposed to be watching. Of course.  
  
Naturally, these little trips are more than just expeditions to get what they need. They’re tests.  
  
Edge doesn’t know what the hell Gangrel wants with him and Christian. He’s never explained it, not when they first met, not when he brought Edge with him to recruit Christian, not after all their nights together.  
  
When he looks back and thinks about their first meeting, he can only laugh at how odd it seemed. Gangrel looked innocent enough, dressed in white, wearing the necklace with the huge cross, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, but Edge had both mistrusted him and felt drawn to him at the same time.  
  
He’d turned up out of nowhere, walked into the college cafeteria like he every right to be there, crossed the room to where Edge was eating lunch, tucked away alone in the corner with a textbook in front of him and a pile of books on the next chair.  
  
When Gangrel sat down in front him, Edge was both a little creeped out and very intrigued at the same time. As much as the man in front of him seemed off, there was something about him, almost like a magnetic pull.  
  
He can’t remember much of what Gangrel said now, but he remembers that it was like the kind of speech one would expect from a cult member trying to get an outsider to join.  
  
Edge would have dismissed him out of hand, but his gut told him to stay, listen, really take in what the guy was saying.  
  
It was his gut that urged him to do as Gangrel said and drink from his chalice.  
  
That was it, really. The one moment that changed his life forever.  
  
He knows it was blood in the chalice, but it didn’t look like blood. It was too dark, too thick, and it didn’t taste like salt and rust. It tasted like ecstasy and beauty and liquid life, all in one mouthful.  
  
As he swallowed it, he could feel his entire body coming alive, and suddenly everything was so much _more_ : the taste magnified, he could feel every tiny scratch in the table, smell the scent of every little thing around him.  
  
Gangrel was saying something, repeating himself again and again, but Edge couldn’t hear him as the blood overwhelmed his mind.

It was like he’d been living in the darkness his entire life, and now the lights were finally on.  
  
When his brain got back online, he was ready to throw himself at Gangrel’s feet. He’d do anything for this strange messiah who’d shown him the way things really were.  
  
Gangrel didn’t want that, though. Instead, he took back to Edge’s dorm room. Together, they packed Edge’s things and left.  
  
By the time anyone realised that he was gone, they were halfway across the country, and he’d discarded his old name, the one he can barely remember.  
  
Now he's Edge.

  
  
On some level, he knows that just dropping his old life and walking away without a word to anyone was wrong. He knows that so much of what he’s done since then is wrong. He knows that his family and friends probably think he’s dead, probably cried their eyes out and searched everywhere over and over.  
  
It’s not that he doesn’t care. He _can’t_. The blood has eaten his feelings away like the finest acid.  
  
Besides, his life has become so much better now. He’s never felt this good before. He never wants to live like a human again.  
  
The shattering scream of a siren sounds nearby, and Edge snaps back to the present and covers his ears against the sound, wincing.  
  
Enhanced senses are never fun when loud noises/strong scents/especially strong tastes are involved.  
  
He’s perched on the edge of the roof, no pun intended, his feet resting in the gutter and his hands on the tiles. With his hands over his ears, there’s nothing to stop him falling off when he overbalances, but he manages to catch the gutter at the last second. In one swift movement, he throws himself back, grabs the tiles and hangs on.  
  
Damn, he really fucked that up.  
  
Across the rooftops, movement catches his eye, and he looks over and sees the gestures Christian’s shooting at him. 

None of them are the slightest bit complimentary, naturally.  
  
It doesn’t matter. Nobody saw him, and it’s not like he’s given them away, so he shoots a single gesture back at Christian and ignores him steadily.  
  
Edge knows he’s meant to be watching, but it’s boring as fuck, and it’s not long until he’s lost in a reverie, thinking about everything but what he’s meant to be doing-  
  
-and then a hand hits him over the head roughly.  
  
His hand moves without him thinking about it, but Christian dodges the blow easily and thumps his shoulder lightly.  
  
 _Earth to Edge, are you there? Anyone home?_  
  
 _Fuck you too,_ Edge signs back irritably. _What is it?_  
  
 _We’re moving. Which you’d know if you bothered to_ pay attention _…_

Edge doesn’t bother replying. Instead, he flips Christian off again and gets to his feet, measuring the distance to the next roof with his eyes.  
  
Christian leaps, and Edge watches, spellbound, as he soars through the air like a bird and lands on the roof with a loud _thud_.  
  
Edge cringes. The _thud_ was loud even from his rooftop, so it probably woke up anyone inside the house, damn it…

But that won’t matter in a few minutes, anyway.  
  
He bends his knees and jumps, and for a second, time seems to stop while he’s in mid-air. The wind doesn’t feel cold; gravity has no effect on him. Nothing can touch him, nothing can stop him. He is perfect, he is immortal, he is a _god_ -

He nearly bounces off the roof, and the noise he makes as he scrabbles to land is loud enough that they could probably hear it in New Zealand. Fuck. Yeah, scratch that last bit. 

Christian looks at him incredulously, and Edge chooses to ignore him, looking around instead for anyone who might come to see what the noise was.  
  
Sure, in theory, there’s plenty of perfectly normal things that could have made the sound, but all it’d take is one person looking out of their window at the right moment, and they’d be fucked.  
  
Better move fast, then.  
  
Below them, inside the house, Edge hears the _click_ of a light being turned on.  
  
 _Shit!_  
  
Christian’s already gone, and Edge scrambles over the roof, tense and alert, following the distinctive scents of Gangrel and Christian to where they’re crouching next to a skylight.  
  
He’ll never get used to their scent, he muses as he moves. They don’t smell _bad_ by any definition of the word, but they smell like nothing on Earth, so it’s always just a bit disconcerting.  
  
He can see why Gangrel picked this house: the skylight’s the kind that can open just a bit- easier to reach than windows, and less noisy to get through, since they won’t have to break it to get inside.  
  
Gangrel’s fiddling with the skylight, and soon enough, there’s another little _click_ as it finally opens. He hauls it up, props it open and gestures to Christian, who slides inside in an instant.  
  
Far below, there’s another _thud_ as Christian lands, and Gangrel signs _Wait_ to Edge, who nods and looks around, praying that no one’s going to come look.  
  
He really wishes that Christian and Gangrel wouldn’t wear white shirts so often. It’s true that black isn’t the best colour to wear at night if you want to remain unnoticed- dark blue or dark grey generally works better- but in contrast, white is just plain wrong.  
  
They won’t listen to him about it, though. Stubborn bastards.  
  
Suddenly, he’s knocked out of his reverie by a frightened gasp that’s followed by a loud _snap_.  
  
The _snap_ echoes through the night, and Edge pauses, unsure of what’s happening, what he’s feeling. It’s not a sensation he feels a lot, and he wonders what it is, this strange weight in his chest, this sudden unhappiness. Almost like… regret?  
  
But what does he have to regret?  
  
About a minute later, there’s another _snap_ , and the regret intensifies, as does Edge’s confusion.  
  
It’s not like they’re _people_ , after all. So why would a few meaningless deaths make him feel bad?  
  
Whatever. He shakes his head briskly and takes a last look around as Gangrel climbs through the skylight.  
  
Once he’s satisfied that no one’s around, he swings through himself and lets go, falling to the ground and landing easily.  
  
The light’s on, and Edge takes in the room with a single glance. It’s a fairly standard den- wooden bookshelves holding a collection of books, an old rug with a few stains on it, a couch and a TV, and some photos of landscapes. Pretty normal, really.  
  
Except for the corpses on the rug, of course, but no place is perfect.  
  
Christian’s already got the apparatus out of the bag: eleven one-litre glass bottles, the plastic tubing, and the pump. Without looking, he extends a hand to Edge, who rolls his eyes, pulls his knife from the pocket inside his coat, and hands it to Christian.  
  
Christian takes it, but Edge doesn’t let go, and Christian looks up, confused.  
  
Edge lets go of the knife and signs _You could say please_ to him.  
  
Christian rolls his eyes back and puts the knife down, signing _Pretty please with a cherry on top and ice-cream inside_ back.  
  
Gangrel clears his throat loudly, and both men turn toward him.  
  
 _Boys, you can argue later,_ he signs. _Christian, get to it. Edge, you’re the pyro for today._  
  
Edge nods gratefully. The room’s stinking of death and shit, and to a sensitive half-vampire nose, it’s becoming unbearable. He has no idea how Christian’s not gagging by now.  
  
Instead, Christian pulls out the small black bag from the depths of the bigger bag and tosses it to Edge, who catches it neatly and makes a fast escape.  
  
It doesn’t take long to set things up. It never does, in the end. They’ve refined their technique, learned what works best through trial and error, and they’ve got it down to an art.  
  
Of course, that’s the major problem. It doesn’t take long on Edge’s part, so by the time that he’s finished, Christian and Gangrel aren’t.  
  
He kills time by prowling through the house, checking on the preparations, listening for any unwelcome sound.  
  
A couple of times, he freezes, thinking he’s heard something, but it always inevitably turns out to be nothing.  
  
The silence is getting to him. He twitches and flinches at the slightest sound from above, winces whenever a particularly strong smell hits his nose.

Finally, he hears someone clap twice, and there, that’s the signal, time to move-  
  
He goes to the chosen start point and pulls the box of matches out of his pocket. He has to turn away when he strikes the match, because the sudden flare of light and sharp scent hits him hard, like a baseball bat of sense to the face.  
  
Once he’s recovered, he holds the lit match to the box, starting at the end that doesn’t contain the match heads. He’s not a total idiot, thank you.  
  
It catches and he drops it and runs like hell. They don’t have long now, he has to move fast, and as the smoke and stink of fire clouds his nose, it’s all he can do to tune it out as he bolts up the stairs.  
  
Christian and Gangrel are already outside, lucky bastards. He can hear the fire spreading below, and there’s something about the sight of the bodies, their skin as pale as marble and their eyes glassy, it makes him want to throw up so he bolts past them and practically throws himself out of the skylight and onto the roof.  
  
 _That bad, huh?_ Christian signs, and Edge wants to punch him, but he devotes his energy to taking deep breaths of cold, mercifully clean air. Of _course_ it was that fucking bad, and this is hardly the time for casual conversation, his stomach’s rolling with hunger and nausea and it’s all he can do to not throw up because _fuck_ , he hasn’t eaten in ages and he can still smell it even from here and-  
  
 _Let’s go,_ Gangrel signs, and all Edge can do is get up and run.  
  
Gangrel’s got the bag, which makes sense because now the bottles are full and it’s heavy as fuck. A normal human would probably have trouble lifting it, let alone carrying it; even Christian and Edge would have problems after a while.  
  
Somehow Gangrel manages to not only carry it, but he runs faster than Christian and Edge and laughs at them mockingly as they try to keep up.  
  
The bastard.  
  
Edge isn’t sure how long it took them to get there. An hour? An hour and a half? Whatever. He’d like to say that it doesn’t matter, except it does, because the longer it takes them to get back, the bigger the chance of getting intercepted is.  
  
He leaps onto another roof and risks taking a look back, and swears. The building’s in flames already. Of course, that’s what was meant to happen, but they haven’t covered nearly enough ground by now and he can hear sirens in the distance.  
  
 _Shit!_  
  
The moon is beautiful, standing out against the midnight-blue sky, but its light makes the Brood look far too distinctive. They stand out against the rooftops.  
  
Anyone can see them, but the streets would be too hard…  
  
There’s no time for that. Edge keeps running, constantly looking around to pinpoint Gangrel and Christian’s locations, praying that nobody’s spotted them.  
  
Just because they’ve never been caught before doesn’t mean that it won’t happen.  
  
Edge knows the rules, anyway: on the way back, the first priority is getting the bag back to the nest. It’s every man for himself otherwise. They can’t risk getting caught. Vampires have survived this long by evading notice, hence why they always burn the houses once they’re done. Can’t risk the authorities noticing that all these bodies drained of blood keep showing up, after all.  
  
They’ve got nothing to worry about, though. Gangrel’s far ahead, his arms around the bag; Christian’s over to the right, and he looks like he’s leisurely jogging, excepting how fast he’s going.   
  
Edge dodges some tall pine trees, leaps across yet another gap and starts to relax as ahead of him, a tall redbrick apartment building surrounded by trees comes into view.  
  
He knows that building. They’re only about twenty minutes away-  
  
 _Bang_.  
  
Automatically, Edge throws himself down, his face impacting hard on the tiles as a bullet soars over his head. Pain explodes in his nose and forehead, but there’s no time for that right now.  
  
 _Shit!_  
  
He chances a look behind him, but there’s no lights, no sirens. Fuckers have gone silent, that just makes it harder to see them and get away.  
  
Another shot sounds, and automatically, Edge looks around, worry gnawing away inside him. Ahead of him, Gangrel vanishes into the darkness with his bag, but to his right-  
  
 _no_  
  
To his right, he watches, horrified, as the cop fires again and the bullet slams into Christian. The momentum pushes Christian forward, sending him tumbling over the edge of the roof and down into the alley below. A second later, Edge hears him land with a sickening _thud._

He didn’t even scream.

Maybe he couldn't.

 

In the next second, Edge feels like he’s been frozen from the inside out, like his blood’s been replaced in the veins by liquid ice. Time slows as his mind replays the sight of Christian falling off the roof again and again, and it takes the sharp sting of a bullet scraping his face to knock him out of his trance.  
  
He wants to rip throats out. He wants to scream Christian’s name over and over. He wants to kill every motherfucker who happens to be nearby.  
  
But he doesn’t.  
  
Instead, he alters his course. Instead of leaping to the next roof, he jumps down and lands hard on a dumpster. Pain shoots through his legs from the bad impact, but he doesn’t notice. Instead, he drops to the ground and inhales deeply.  
  
The trash in the dumpster makes him recoil, but he ignores it. He sorts through the scents that reach his nose: oily petrol, clear snow, dog piss, mud, the rusty sour tang of-  
  
Blood. And not just any blood. Christian’s blood, with its alien overtones.  
  
Edge runs across the street without hesitation and into a dark alley, following his nose until he sees the crumpled form lying on the ground ahead-  
  
 _no oh no oh no_  
  
He drops to his knees beside Christian and feels for a pulse frantically. It’s there, thank fuck, but it’s weak, it’s slow, and he knows Christian has to be healing, but it’s been far too long since either of them drank any blood, it’ll take too long-  
  
He manages to get Christian onto his side, and he can see the wound now. From what he can tell, the bullet’s lodged in Christian’s left shoulder, and given the drop from the roof, he might have broken some bones in his feet and legs as well. Normally, a wound like that would close over pretty quickly and heal in a couple of hours, but at this rate it’d take maybe a day, and Christian’s going to go crazy when he wakes up.

The thought of his lover getting caught in a feeding frenzy sends shivers down Edge’s spine. It’s a natural reaction, Gangrel says, the natural response of any vampire who overdoes it and hasn’t fed. They go crazy, attacking anything and anyone, killing and maiming and feeding until they’re satisfied. They can’t be reasoned with; they recognise neither friend nor foe. They _can_ be stopped, restrained, prevented from attacking, but stopping a vampire in a feeding frenzy is like trying to stop a rogue Mack truck: not a good idea.  
  
The only thing Edge can do for him is carry him back to the nest. He could always let Christian feed on him, but Christian might easily kill him in a frenzied state, and as much as Edge loves him, that’s not a risk he’s willing to take.  
  
In the end, Edge has to throw Christian over his shoulder. He’s out of it, so that rules out supporting him as they walk. Thankfully, Christian was always on the skinny side even with the muscle he’s put on, so Edge manages to carry him down the alley without too much troub-  
  
“Stop,” a firm voice says from behind him, the accent crisp and clear. “Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly. You're under arrest.”  
  
 _Shit._  
  
Edge mentally kicks himself for his stupidity. He was too concerned over Christian to keep track of what was going on around him, and now…

He can hear two of them. One’s shifting from foot to foot, the other’s holding the gun, the one that shot Christian, its stench of gunpowder polluting the air.  
  
Gangrel’s voice sounds in Edge’s head for a second. _Say nothing. No talking outside the nest._  
  
But right now, he’s too angry to care.  
  
“Like fuck I will,” he spits.  
  
He hears the safety catch get flicked off.  
  
“We will shoot,” the cop warns him.  
  
“You already did,” Edge snarls back.  
  
“Surrender peacefully and we’ll call an ambulance for your friend,” the first cop tells him.  
  
Edge doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t have to. The answer to all their problems has just fallen into his lap.  
  
He doesn’t respond. He can hear the cop coming closer, smell the gun approaching-  
  
“No sudden movements,” the cop warns him. “Put him down and-”  
  
Unfortunately for the cop, there’s no part of police training that teaches you how to handle a furious enemy who doesn’t care if they get shot and who moves too fast for you to handle.  
  
Edge turns rapidly, letting Christian fall, and punches the cop in the face as hard as he can. He feels bone crunch under his knuckles, and then a cannon blasts and his side explodes.  
  
It takes him a second to realise that the cop just shot him, but he’s too pissed off to care. 

One down. One to go.

He crosses the ground between him and the other cop in several seconds and punches him in the throat.  
  
The cop goes down in a second, gasping and thrashing, and Edge drops to one knee, grabs the cop’s radio from his hand and smashes it to shards.  
  
With that done, he looks over at the other cop. He’s injured, but trying to rise, his hand reaching for the gun where it fell to the ground.  
  
Fuck that.  
  
The pain in Edge’s side makes its presence felt, and he snarls, staring down at his fallen enemies with anticipation, the scent of blood in the air making his throat burn.  
  
 _It can wait,_ a voice inside his mind says, and Edge blinks, shaking his head. Of course. Yes. He has to help Christian.  
  
Limping, he manages to kick the gun out of reach. Then he plants his foot on the cop’s chest and presses down hard.  
  
Once the cop’s subsided, he manages to pick up Christian and drags him over to where the second cop lies- dead? Dying? Who cares? He’s just food now.  
  
The agony in Edge’s side is starting to become unbearable, because even with his regeneration, he hasn’t fed in so long that it’s becoming hard to stay conscious, and looking at the three prone bodies around him is starting to make him hungry. They’re just food, anyway, just a little sip from each wouldn’t-  
  
 _No! Help Christian!_  
  
Edge lifts a shaking hand and slaps himself hard enough to sting. It helps a bit, enough that he can kneel beside Christian and resist the growing urge to sink his fangs into Christian’s throat.  
  
Instead, he slaps Christian again and again until he stirs, groaning, his eyelids fluttering and Edge leans close, opens his mouth and-  
  
 _oh shit_  
  
Christian’s eyes are livid red. The lights are on, but Christian sure as fuck isn’t home.  
  
Edge manages to scramble backwards as Christian reaches for him, his fingers like bones in the moonlight, and the one part of Edge’s brain that’s still thinking coherently realises that he’s in a full-blown feeding frenzy.  
  
There’s only one thing that Edge can do now, and he does it: he keeps scrambling backwards, moving out of range until he bumps into the second cop’s body.  
  
He’s out of reach now. Christian turns his attention from Edge to the still-thrashing cop beside him, and grabs him roughly, hauling him up like a broken doll. His movements are sharp and vicious as he grabs the cop by the shoulders, pulls him closer and sinks his fangs into his throat.  
  
He slumps down against the wall as he drinks, his eyes unfocused, and the sight makes Edge hungry enough that for a second, he wants to shove Christian out of the way and eat the cop himself.  
  
He’s about to do it when he puts a hand out, touches cloth and remembers that he’s got his own meal just lying there.  
  
Without hesitation, he goes to town.

 

Edge can never really describe the sensation of drinking blood. It’s too hard to muster up something that really describes it; actually doing it is the best way to explain.  
  
There’s no real way to describe the ecstasy, the rush as the hot, wet, burning ecstasy spreads through him quicker than lightning, and God, yes, _yes_ , he needs more, he wants _more_ , he bites deeper, sucks harder, pressing himself up against the body, licking away at the wound, trying to get every last drop, and it’s like he’s opened his eyes for the first time because every little thing is so much clearer, every sound is sharper, every scent is stronger and he needs more, he needs it, God, and it’s like the blood is alive, welling up inside him, spreading more pleasure through him until his vision turns black as the sheer bliss overloads his senses.  
  
He doesn’t realise that he’s still drinking, still sucking at the wound until the blood runs dry, the pleasure cuts off like someone turned a tap, and he collapses, his mouth coming away from the wound with a _squelch_ as his fangs are pulled free from the dead flesh.  
  
He lies there, helpless for at least a few minutes as his brain comes back online, sharper and clearer than before, and oh _God_ it’s been too long since he’s felt this sheer pleasure again.  
  
There’s one thing he knows for certain: he is _not_ going to allow himself to go that long without feeding again. Fuck what Gangrel says, that was way too close.  
  
He could have killed Christian.  
  
The thought makes him want to throw up, but his stomach refuses to so much as churn; it holds onto the blood with a grip like a vice.  
  
Slowly, he manages to get his hand to his side. The wound’s gone, and all that’s left is a thin scar and a fair amount of pain.

It’s not enough. He needs more blood, but hopefully that should be enough for now. The hunger’s lessened a bit, and by the time they get back to the nest, he should have healed up fully. In theory.  
  
He gets to his feet, turns around and sighs in relief. Christian’s standing over the body of the other cop, and he turns to face Edge, looking distraught.  
  
He starts to sign something, but Edge embraces him out of sheer relief, holding his lover tightly until Christian pushes him away and starts signing.

 _We ate_ cops? _Please say we didn’t just kill cops._  
  
 _You got shot, you moron. Think you broke a leg as well. They caught up to me, the fuck else was I meant to do?_  
  
 _Gangrel’s gonna-_  
  
 _Gangrel can blow me,_ Edge signs back irritably, though he doesn’t mean it, and he feels dirty just for signing it. _We need to get out of here._  
  
Christian looks annoyed, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he points to the corpses. _What do we do with them?_  
  
Edge manages to get to his feet. _I’ve got a plan. How are you feeling?_

_I’ve been better, but I can manage. What’s the plan?_

_Follow me._

  
  
They move quickly. Once they’ve collected the various debris, including the bullets, they carry the corpses five blocks in the wrong direction and drop them on a dumpster. The wounds in the corpses’ necks are pretty distinctive, but a few minutes with Edge’s knife and yeah, it’s not perfect, but at least it’s not obvious that they got bitten. And OK, the dumpster’s not a perfect hiding spot, but the trash should fuck up any traces of them.  
  
They haul several split bags out of the dumpster, throw the cold, marble-like corpses in and throw the trash on top, spreading it around until the corpses are entirely hidden. Once they’ve put the lid back down, they spread more around on top to fuck up any traces on the lid, and once _that’s_ done, Christian looks down at his grimy hands and grimaces.  
  
They lose another five minutes finding a tap in another alley, and even then they can’t spend too much time getting their hands clean, but once they’ve spent the absolute minimum time necessary, they finally make their way back to the nest, Christian leaning on Edge the whole way.  
  
And at least they get there unhampered.  
  
The nest is a huge house that had been built several hundred years ago. Edge doesn’t know how long Gangrel’s had it, but it was already furnished when he first moved in. The décor’s pretty last century, but nobody’s really complaining. Everything works and it’s nice and comfortable, so what’s the problem?  
  
They don’t use most of it, and to be honest, the nest’s far too big for just three people. Technically, they each have their own part of the house, but Edge and Christian haven’t done much with theirs apart from furnishing their bedrooms. Most of Gangrel’s is off limits, of course.  
  
The man himself is waiting for them in the front corridor, his arms folded. As Edge and Christian walk in, his expression changes from distinctly unimpressed to worried, and Edge instinctively feels like a major douche for making him worry. “What the fuck happened?”  
  
Edge shoves the door shut and looks down. He’s always had problems making eye contact, and he doesn’t have the slightest idea why. “We, uh, ran into some… _complications_.”  
  
“Don’t leave anything out,” Gangrel says.  
  
Christian’s obviously feeling really shitty, because he shoves past them both without so much as a single sign, heading for his room and leaving Edge to explain.  
  
Gangrel says nothing as Edge speaks; in fact, he doesn’t even change expression until Edge is finished. Only then does he shake his head. “Really?”  
  
“It’s not my fault,” Edge mumbles, still unable to look Gangrel in the eye. “I did the best I could.”  
  
“True,” Gangrel concedes, and for a second, Edge wonders if he’s missed something. Probably not, though. And if he did, it’s his own fault… “All right. Go clean yourself up, for God’s sake.”  
  
Effectively dismissed, Edge nods curtly and makes his way up to his own room as fast as he can.  
  
He spends the next half hour scrubbing himself over and over again, scraping his hands nearly raw in an effort to get the stink off them.  
  
In the end, he’s not sure if it worked or not. The combination of his sensitive nose and the masking effects of water and soap means that he probably won’t be able to smell anything but soap for a while, so he finally steps out of the shower, towels himself dry and drags on some clean clothes with a sigh.  
  
He wants to sleep. It’s been such a long night that he just wants to crawl under the sheets and sleep for a week. But he’s ravenous; the long shower has given his body time to catch up, and it’s chosen now to inform him that he needs some solid, actual food as soon as possible, and if he can, he needs more blood.  
  
Edge has no idea which to tackle first: his need for sleep or his need for food. In the end, he trudges downstairs and into the communal part of the house, looking for food.  
  
Gangrel’s already stashed away the blood they secured- after all, as the only full vampire in the trio, he needs blood to live; human food is tasty, but entirely useless to him. He could eat himself sick on human food, but he’d still die of malnutrition in no time.  
  
And of course, as he likes to remind them, Edge and Christian would drink it all in a day if he let them have free access to it.  
  
(Edge never argued about that last point. He knows Gangrel’s right. It’s _blood_ , for fuck’s sake, who wouldn’t?)  
  
At least the kitchen’s good. Gangrel keeps it clean and working well, and yeah, sometimes it takes a while for anyone to remember to go shopping (for actual groceries, not blood), there’s usually something in the pantry or the fridge.  
  
Experimentally, Edge tries the fridge first and grins: he forgot about the pumpkin soup he made yesterday. There’s still a lot left, more than enough for him. A minute or two in the microwave and it’s perfect. He grates a little nutmeg over the top and adds a spoonful of sour cream, and then it’s divine.  
  
At first he’s too hungry to care about the taste, but once his initial cravings are satisfied, he starts to notice the rich flavour, the way it explodes in pumpkin-flavoured sunbursts over his tongue.  
  
His enhanced sense of taste is a double-edged sword. On the plus side, good food tastes fucking _amazing_. On the minus side, bad food tastes even worse, and otherwise-OK food that just has a minor flaw (like, say, pizza with too much cheese, cordial that’s too weak, or chips with too much salt) tastes downright abominable, the flaws drowning out what good there is in the food.  
  
The soup’s just fine, though, and Edge goes through the entire container in a few minutes. He sits back in his chair, sighs, and closes his eyes.  
  
A loud cough knocks him out of his trance, and he opens his eyes to find that Christian’s leaning against the open door, looking unamused.  
  
 _You didn’t save any for me?_  
  
 _Make your own_ , Edge signs back irritably. _I’m not your servant._  
  
Christian smirks, signs back a few insults and goes to find some food, throwing one last disdainful look at Edge over his shoulder.  
  
Edge stays at the table as Christian makes and devours his pasta, waiting for the inevitable hunger pangs to start up. That’s the major downside of his enhanced abilities: he eats a _lot_ , whether it’s food or blood, and even a whole container of pumpkin soup can’t sate him when he’s this hungry. He needs more.  
  
Three BLT’s later, he and Christian are sitting on the couch in the lounge room, slumped against each other.  
  
The TV’s not on, but they don’t care. Staring at the wall is just fine, especially when he can feel Christian’s warmth next to him. It’s been a long, long night, and now Edge just wants it to be over.  
  
So of course, that’s when Gangrel walks in, holding his huge chalice.  
  
Despite all the food he’s just eaten, the scent of the blood makes Edge’s stomach rumble just a little.  
  
He really wishes he knew what kind of blood’s in the chalice. It’s not normal human blood, that’s for sure. Even fresh blood from a live human isn’t as intoxicating as that.  
  
If he had any idea what the source was, he’d find it and spend an entire week drinking from it, fuck everything else. It’s that damn good.  
  
Gangrel pauses on the threshold, and he smiles slightly when he sees that Edge and Christian’s eyes are locked on the chalice.  
  
“We did good tonight,” he says, and Edge winces, imagining sarcasm where there isn’t any. “Apart from the part where Christian got shot and the two of you killed some cops, but it could be worse. We got the blood, there’s no evidence left behind and we’re all OK. So I think you two deserve a little treat.”  
  
Oh _fuck_ yes.  
  
Gangrel crosses the room and sits down next to Christian. Christian signs something to him, but Edge can’t quite see what, nor can he quite see the reply. It doesn’t matter, though, because Gangrel holds the chalice to Christian’s lips and tilts it, and Christian starts drinking it like he just walked through a desert at noon and it’s water, and Gangrel’s whispering something into Christian’s ear like he always does when he doses them, no idea why, really, and Christian starts moaning like he does when Edge blows him-  
  
-and Edge turns his ears off in the interests of not popping a boner right there and then.  
  
It’s not like he hasn’t before. Everyone has. Perfectly natural.  
  
It’s just kind of embarrassing, that’s all.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Christian collapses against Edge, completely out of it, and Edge irritably shoves Christian off him and sits up.  
  
Gangrel’s refilling the chalice from God knows what, and he’s got that damn smile on his face, and Edge wants him to stop it right now-  
  
-but now the chalice is touching his lips and automatically Edge opens his mouth and oh _shit,_ yes, _yes,_ that’s it, that’s-  
  
-and the world turns white.

  
  
He comes back to himself in what could be hours, if not days later. It takes him a while to realise that the ceiling is not the floor, and the floor/ceiling does not need to be covered in fluffy things.  
  
As a matter of fact, he’s on a fluffy thing. His hand is, anyway. It’s nice to touch, and he rubs his hand over it absent-mindedly until hey wait, why is it moving-  
  
-Oh. Right. It’s Christian’s head. Oops.  
  
Edge blinks a few times, tries to make his brain work, and it manages to get moving enough to tell him that they’re in Christian’s room- on Christian’s bed, actually- and he’s not really tired now.  
  
He’s still tired, of course, but at least now it’s not as bad as it was.  
  
He’s not quite sure how they got there. Gangrel must have carried them.  
  
That was nice of him.  
  
He’s still on the high from the whatever it is, and he finds himself snuggling up to Christian, ignoring the latter’s flailing when he finds himself suddenly being hugged.  
  
Christian finally ends up elbowing him in the face to get Edge to let go of him, and then in a few brisk movements, Edge finds that Christian is now on top of him.  
  
Eh, it’s not like it doesn’t happen all the time. No big deal.  
  
It does make it hard to communicate, though, because Christian’s hands are on Edge’s arms, holding them down.  
  
Better stick to yes/no questions, then.  
  
“Is there a point to this?” Edge asks.  
  
Christian shrugs and starts doing this thing that’s like a cross between kissing and biting Edge’s neck. Whatever it is, it makes Edge shiver, but not in a bad way.  
  
Christian starts slowly kissing his way up Edge’s neck until he reaches the jugular, and without warning, he sinks his fangs into Edge’s throat.  
  
The first stab of pain gives way as Edge involuntarily goes limp, his muscles relaxing and his eyes rolling back in his head as Christian feeds, delicately licking up his blood in a way that’s almost dainty.  
  
Gangrel’s got them trained well. Feeding on another vampire is a sign of dominance, but submitting instantly is just something Gangrel likes, and it didn’t take them long to learn.  
  
(Whether he gets off on it or not is something Edge doesn’t know, but it’s not like he’d get an answer if he asked, so it doesn’t really matter.)  
  
He only realises that Christian’s stopped when he feels him move to the side, pull Edge up until he’s leaning against the wall.  
  
For a second, he almost asks ‘Why?’, but it’s a pointless question. He _knows_ why. Christian never takes much, because it’s not about feeding. It’s about dominance. As sarcastic as he is, Christian always follows Edge’s lead outside the nest. When they’re inside and behind closed doors, however, it’s an entirely different matter, one that Christian relishes.  
  
And as much as Edge occasionally hates it, in the end, he wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
So instead, he grins like a fool and stares into Christian’s eyes like a lovesick idiot as Christian leans in to kiss him.  
  
His lips are soft and warm and just for a second, Edge can taste something there, something salty and tangy and oh, right, it’s his, his own blood.  
  
And it is delicious.

 

On the whole, vampires are pretty resistant to change, excepting situations where change is absolutely necessary to survive. 

Gangrel’s always been something of an exception, though. To put it simply, he _likes_ change. He likes new and different things. He always has and he always will; it’s just how he is.  
  
As a result, he’s been called many things in his time: _insane, radical, anarchist, suicidal, delusional, destructive revolutionary._  
  
He happily admits that he’s been both all of them and none of them in his life, often at the same time. But he refuses to be known by any title other than that he chooses for himself.  
  
And thus he is known as the scientist.  
  
His lab is private, of course. He can’t risk what would happen otherwise. Matters would become extremely complicated if they disobeyed him, though thankfully they do his bidding as if their last name was Renfield.  
  
Of course, vampire venom does tend to do that.  
  
It’s an interesting substance, vampire venom. When consumed by a human, small amounts will make them a slave, willing to do anything for the vampire in question until the effects wear off. Large amounts will destroy their minds entirely, leaving them as mindless thralls, even once the venom’s effects are gone. It takes biting a human to turn them, but most vampires find that making them thralls is simply easier.  
  
When consumed by a vampire, venom makes even the most vitriolic vampire amenable to suggestions, though they are still capable of saying no.  
  
When consumed by a half-vampire… ah, yes. That’s the best part, Gangrel knows. When consumed by a half-vampire, it makes them loyal and subservient, but ultimately still their own person.  
  
It’s certainly worked wonders on Edge and Christian.  
  
Gangrel has dosed them with his elixir since he first met them. The combination of rich, raw, human blood, venom and a certain very addictive euphoric drug he brews himself has turned them into his loyal subjects, in more ways than one.  
  
He wasn’t lying when he told them that half-bloods are rare. In fact, they’re almost unheard of. But it’s not that they simply don’t occur in nature- even though vampires and humans procreating is rare, pregnancies do occur every so often, though vampire pregnancies are considerably more common, though not as common as human pregnancies.  
  
No, what makes them rare is the little fact that vampires almost universally consider them to be abominations.  
  
The fact is, most half-bloods are killed at birth. Hardly any survive to adulthood, because most travelling vampires make it a point to seek them out and kill them.  
  
Gangrel has no idea how the hell Edge and Christian have managed to stay alive for this long, but now that he’s found them, he refuses to let anything happen to them.  
  
After all, he is first and foremost a scientist. What kind of scientist would he be if he let his subjects be killed?  
  
There is no end to how much Edge and Christian fascinate him. In his hundreds of years, he has never met anyone like them.  
  
It irks him that so many of his peers subscribe to the view that half-bloods are monsters. There is so much they can learn from them; so many ways that half-bloods can be useful. Killing them is just so  _wasteful_.

He’s learned so much from them already: how without blood, they’re essentially just humans with a lot of extra potential; how without blood, their vampiric abilities would wither away and die, though they could easily return with enough blood. How they can regenerate (and it’s a minor miracle that neither of them has realised that biting Christian’s finger off was no accident, but he supposes he has the venom to thank for that), how they have enhanced senses, enhanced capabilities, enhanced lives.

As much as he wishes he’d been able to study them for longer, the fact remains that as far as he knows, they’re the only two half-vampires left in North America.

He’d love to go searching for more, but it’s too risky. If he left them behind, there’s a strong chance that some travelling vampire would find them and kill them. If he took them with him, they might run into some strange vampire who’d attack them. Gangrel’s already considered odd enough without word getting out that he’s fostering so-called abominations.

There’s still time, though. Maybe he’ll find another one. A female, preferably; he has no idea if half-vampires are sterile the way so many hybrids are, but he’d love to study their children. 

Of course, he could always try making one himself, but he’s never wanted children and doesn’t plan on changing the attitude anytime soon. Plus, it’s rare enough for vampire/human pregnancies to occur, and even then it’s not like he can just _make_ the child be female.

And what if the mother- oh, never mind. In short, it’d be far too complicated, so that’s an idea he’ll have to put on the backburner for now.  
  
And so he studies the strange pair, keeps them under his thumb, analyses their behaviour and makes sure they do exactly what he says. He’s done his best to separate them from their old lives- changed their names, moved them away from their hometowns, done his best with his venom to get them to forget. Now they’re his minions, his toys, his subjects.  
  
Ah. Come to think of it… oh, yes.  
  
He goes to the computer, accesses a certain program, smiles as it loads.  
  
He clicks through the screens until he finds the one he wants, the one that shows him what the hidden camera in Christian’s bedroom sees.  
  
After all, what kind of scientist would he be if he didn’t keep a close eye on his subjects?  
  
He watches, entranced by their movements, enthralled by their actions. It’s the way they move, so smooth, like a cat or a snake.  
  
Beautiful, really.  
  
As they kiss, their hands sliding over each other’s bodies, Gangrel wonders if they’d still want each other if it weren’t for the venom.  
  
It’s an interesting question, to be sure.  
  
On the one hand, he never actually _told_ them to want each other. Every time he drugs them, he tells them to obey him, follow him, respect him, get along with each other. But he never told them who to love.  
  
On the other hand, given that he’s never so much as kissed either one, it’s not like they’re spoiled for choice…  
  
But that’s of no matter. He finds a notebook, starts scribbling notes, watches their every movement intently as the cameras record every instant.  
  
After all, a good scientist keeps a _very_ close eye on his subjects.

 


End file.
